Glimpses of Sara

My mom and I when we visited the butterfly museum last summer.

Me and my poison ivy–not thrilled with each other even a week after it appeared.

(When you’re not great at shooting selfies while driving, transform them into sketches…. ) While I did ask my son how I looked before I left for my first day on the job, I didn’t think about shooting a photo — until I reached my first STOP sign. I look more happy than anxious. :)

My friend Robena and I took a selfie prior to embarking on the Dash for Diabetes 5K Saturday morning.

A selfie of my mother and I on my last visit.

Stars upon thar driver licenses…

Me, this morning, with the trusty float destined to save me from all the denizens of the deep — and the shallows.

Loving being with my husband

The fun before the storm… Little Orange Riding Hood and her sister Trish with unruly, not overly photogenic or cooperative football fans in the background. Did these people not feel the raindrops splashing around us? This was the weekend before the Nightmare with Coughin’ began…

Temporarily pouting, but permanently enlightened!

Daughter-in-love and mother-in-love. :)

Stainless steel frames with progressive, no-line bifocal lenses that are photochromatic and have a premium oleophobic anti-reflective coating for a mere $136.26 shipped to my mailbox in two weeks or less. Zenni, you should hire me to advertise for you.)

My son after his final performance in “Beauty and the Beast.” He played both a beast and a prince perfectly… just like in real life. :)

So it poured rain the day of commencement, which meant it was a bad hair day. But it was a great day with my new, old friends anyway!

Adam and I a mere six years ago…

That would be me…. and, yes, I am smiling behind the mask.

Actually, I was holding the pitchfork, and I wasn’t smiling…

Spontaneous selifes by way of illustration: The two on the left were done with modern technology, me looking at what would be the mirror image WYWIWYG. The right one, quasi modern, digital smartphone camera but holding it as I would a traditional camera.

The gift of song…

My parents, Barbara and John Souders

I wish I could call my dad on the phone today and sing him “Happy Birthday!” the way he and my mom always did for me once I’d left home. No matter my age, my parents were sure to call to sing–my dad with his lovely voice and my mom with her tone-deaf one. It was silly, expected, and yet delightful. I would listen, feeling somewhat awkward, but my heart welled with pleasure every year. I wish I could return the favor.

If he were alive, my dad would be celebrating 83 years on this planet. The last time we celebrated, however, he turned 76. And the next day was the beginning of his end. He fell and broke his hip. His health had been declining–a dubious diagnosis of malabsorption disease, in which his intestines refused to absorb nutrients from the food my dad ate. He had wasted away, suffered from edema in his legs and arms, and slowly became a shadow of the man he had been. The broken hip was merely the last straw. The hospital, the rehab centers, the few weeks of supposed normalcy, followed by Hospice at home passed far too quickly, and John Edward Souders went to be with Jesus on Dec. 6, 2005.

My mother had been reading their daily devotion, which happened to be I Corinthians 13, aloud to my dad; when she finished, she told him how much she loved him, gave him permission to go, and he breathed his last. It was a beautiful ending to a beautiful life.

I still miss my dad.

He was the silly one of the family, telling corny jokes and singing songs. We didn’t listen to the radio; we sang en route to where we were going. I grew up singing “Down By the Old Mill Stream” and “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy,” joying in the fact that I understood the nonsensical words. I always giggled when we sang “She’s Got Freckles on Her But(t) She is Nice” and remained fascinated by Dad’s “A B, C D goldfish? L M N O goldfish. O S A are!”

We also sang some serious worship songs. My parents were Christians who actually trusted God to provide. I remember driving to church–a distance away–on a nearly empty tank, singing praises to Jesus the whole way there and back. My parents were convinced we needed to go worship despite the lack of fuel; we never got stranded. My own faith blossomed–my love for singing was established. At one point in a drive when something had gone wrong, my dad went on the offensive, making up a song rebuking Satan. It was simple, but it became a part of our repertoire:

“I rebuke you, Satan.

I rebuke you, Satan,

By the blood of the Lamb.

I rebuke you, Satan.

I rebuke you, Satan,

By the blood, by the blood, of the lamb.”

Our singing did more than fuel our car and fight off the enemy; it filled my heart with love for God and love for my dad. I always hear my dad’s voice when I sing “There’s Just Something about that Name”; in fact, when I was called on to sing it as a solo, I was so overcome by emotion I couldn’t finish.

If my dad had been here then, he would have cried too. Because as silly as he was, he was a sentimental sweetheart. Often, I’d sit in church, touched by a song or a sermon, with the tears flowing. I’d reach out to my dad–who passed along his handkerchief, just after he’d wiped his own eyes. The things that touched my heart touched his as well.

Singing was his gift to me. When I hear that heaven might include singing and praises to our heavenly Father, my heart cheers! When I get the opportunity to sing with a group of people, my heart is happy. Singing isn’t just my dad’s gift; it’s part of his legacy. It’s a tool God can use to soften my hard heart, to get my attention, to draw me close to Him. It’s also a gift I can share.

My youngest son, Adam John, is named after my dad; my dad called him his namesake and took particular interest in him. When my dad was sick, it was Adam who accompanied me on the frequent journeys to my childhood home so we could cheer him and help my mom. He was with me and my siblings as we joined together around my father’s bedside and sang songs at his request. (And stopped at his request.) He didn’t shrink back even during the final hours of my father’s life, and when my father passed, my youngest said to me that he wanted to be called Adam John (rather than Adam) in honor of my father.

I can only imagine the joy my dad would have, seeing his namesake now, singing in the school choir and taking a significant role in the school’s musical, “Fiddler on the Roof.” The gift goes on.

And while I wish that my dad were here to sing “Happy Birthday!” to today, I am more than thankful that I have a dad I do miss, a dad who shared with me his gift of song–and his love for a Savior.

Thanks, Dad. And thank you, God.

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Sara

I have a desire to write something that will change the world. This blog is one little step out of my currently overfilled life of working, parenting, being a wife, housekeeper, laundress, hostess, cheerleader, beader, reader, and leader... When I write, I feel a bit more sane, even if said writing exposes my insanity. Go figure.
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Ok…I read the line to my husband about your mother reading the devotional to him and then giving him permission to go….I was thinking it would remind my husband of our love and marriage…apparently it did.
He said, “He couldn’t even die without permission. Welcome to my world!”
I have to say, it’s not what I expected.
But very beautiful post. Thank you for sharing it with the world. =)

This made me cry. Thank you for reminding me how much I love to sing too and to do it more often, especially around my children. You are truly blessed to have had such a wonderful, godly father and mother.

I’m so glad you are giving the gift of song to your children–that explains why Michael is craving those worship songs during his time at boot camp. I am definitely blessed by my godly parents–and by friends like you! I am continuing to pray for Peter and Michael!